Iman 19
The library was a world of its own.
Unlike the rest of the house, which was bathed in modern aesthetics, the library stood frozen in time-an elegant tribute to the 80s and 90s. It had high wooden shelves stretching from floor to ceiling, their dark oak structure carrying the scent of old paper and polished wood. An ornate wooden ladder rested against one of the larger bookshelves, its brass fittings gleaming under the soft glow of a vintage chandelier. The chandelier itself was a masterpiece-antique brass with candle-like bulbs that cast a warm, golden hue across the room.
The walls were lined with framed, slightly yellowed maps and black-and-white photographs, giving the space a nostalgic aura. A large mahogany desk sat near the corner, paired with a deep green leather chair, the kind that creaked softly when someone leaned back. At the center of the room, nestled between two shelves, was a small seating area-a tufted velvet sofa in a muted maroon shade, accompanied by two Victorian-style armchairs. An old gramophone sat on a side table, beside a neatly stacked pile of classic novels.
And then, there was the telephone.
It sat gracefully on a small carved wooden side table, a contrast to the modern digital world outside these walls. Its body was glossy black, with a rotary dial shining under the chandelier's light. The golden numbers encased in circular glass, the coiled cord hanging gracefully from the receiver, and the heavy, satisfying weight of it in my hand-it all added to the charm of this little vintage sanctuary.
The sharp ring had broken whatever moment had existed between Ahad and me, and I welcomed the distraction.
I withdrew from his gaze, too intense in the air, and approached the telephone.
My fingers brushed over the smooth black surface before I lifted the receiver.
"Hello?"